


Inkwells like Eyes

by saltyynoodles



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyynoodles/pseuds/saltyynoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton writes like he's running out of time. But is he really? Perhaps he'll never know— he never stops long enough to contemplate such matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inkwells like Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not actually quite sure where this came from but here's for procrastinating on Hollering Just to be Heard!  
> >> Disclaimer: I don't own dead white guys or Hamilton the Musical.

Alexander writes like he’s running out of time. Why?

The rough scratching of the quill on paper sounds harsh and yet comfortingly familiar to his ears. It’s been so long he’s forgotten exactly  _ why _ . Instead he just works in a sort of symbiotic partnership with the cheap candle on his desk— the only thing that keeps his paper illuminated, and yet it's ever diminishing height betrays the hour’s passing.

If Alexander paused to consider the one-worded question, perhaps he would come up with the flimsy sort of answer that intellectual persons are skilled at deceiving themselves with. But he doesn’t— he never does, he never  _ will _ . Because stopping the incessant pace of his work— which has really just become his life— is as good as a death sentence.

If he halts, Alexander might, in a spurt of creativity, observe the candlelight flickering in the dark depths of the inkwell. But then again, in his sleep-deprived state, his mind is more likely to twist the innocent maroon-colored patterns on the ink into blood. And maybe it is blood— how fitting that it should be his lifewater bleeding on the pages. Perhaps the metaphor would be a sign to  _ stop _ the unsustainable habits he’s performing. But that’s to a sane man who doesn’t lock himself in a room with only papers, a quill and inkwell, and candles— lot’s of candles to keep him through the night— Alexander is not that man. 

Instead he keeps writing—  _ always writing _ — pouring his ink-blood skillfully and efficiently. 

These words that had once been an anchor of sorts— the barest shades of yellow in an ominously dark sky— have taken on a new appearance in Alexander’s eyes, which are always shadowed with exhaustion. He used to think of his words as a buoy to keep him afloat, but now he’s not sure  _ what  _ they are. If anything, he feels as if he’s constantly barely able to keep his nostrils above the churning waves. His words have become lead in his fingers, weighing down any attempt for him to rise.

But he doesn’t stop— he  _ can’t _ .

He learned a long time ago that stopping didn’t work, you couldn’t just  _ stop _ . Perhaps there was an otherworldly figure peering down at the world— if there was, Alexander was sure they were questioning why they even created humanity. He was also sure they were determined to throw every provocation and endeavor in his face. Because the only thing that works in his life is  _ working _ . He learned that on a prison guised as a paradise, inside a cocoon of water that nearly killed him, on the ship that had taken him to a life that forced and taught him to fight even more than before. To a life Alexander still isn’t sure had been worth it. But he avoids thinking about these things.

Because that would mean stopping to breathe, pausing to think subjects that weren’t necessary, ceasing to  _ work _ .

And Alexander Hamilton does  _ not _ stop— it’s a fact that has been imprinted in his mind, his  _ DNA _ . Some men’s instincts take them to bars and bed— Alexander’s takes him to a desk stacked high with paper.

So when this man— whose name is whispered reverently in corridors, renown at the least for being the General’s right hand man— stumbles around, eyes dark and clouded, the scent of a cheap— because who can afford more?—  whisky on his breath, who can blame him? No one stops him, gets in his way— everyone knows that nobody but nobody gets in the way of Alexander. Perhaps even among his closest comrades there’s a brief sigh of relief— relief to know that this seemingly unstoppable barrage of whirling ideas and words, with ink-stained fingers and a calculating blue gaze,  _ can _ stop. Even if it’s only in the loosest sense of the word.

That’s the only reason they don’t step in, don’t mention the retching noises from Alexander’s room at night, don’t mention how they never see the man for days on end afterward, only to receive a pile of finished paperwork, completed by a hangover-clung mind. Because they know he won’t appreciate it, will only work harder after that,  _ without _ ‘stopping’.

Because, hidden to everyone, maybe even Alexander himself, he hates the deadly bottle just as much as the candle. But he won’t stop— he  _ can’t _ . He’s stuck in multiple loops that he can’t stop running around. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t outpace reality— just as the candle refuses to allow him to forget time, the pounding headache denies him to imagine life as just a dream. A nightmare to be woken from.

Alexander’s a nonstop man running around in circles that get smaller and smaller until he crashes into himself. Because one day, he _ will _ stop.

Forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all any comments or kudos (or perhaps even the beloved 'bookmark' ;) ) is unspeakably loved by me! Like, you might even get a physical slight curling of the lip and mental giggling :)


End file.
